


Don't

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Established Relationship, Fights, Fluff, Future Character Death, Hospitals, M/M, Major Illness, Marriage Proposal, Mentions of Cancer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-09 00:09:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1961457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The highs and lows of Enjolras and Grantaire's relationship, summed up in a single word with many meanings in many different situations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't

**Author's Note:**

> I was challenged to write a fic with only a single line of dialogue, and see, you can't challenge me to things because I can get _super_ competitive so...yeah.
> 
> So there is only a single line of dialogue, a single _word_ even, but the challenger never specified how many times I could use said line of dialogue, so there's that.
> 
> Usual disclaimer applies as always. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

“Don’t!”

Grantaire’s voice was breathy and full of laughter, and his fingers clawed in vain against the sheets as he tried to control his heaving stomach, flinching away from where Enjolras was running his fingers lightly up and down his ribs. Though there was a hint of hysteria in the single word, there was enough of the joking tone Enjolras was so used to for him to know that word wasn’t meant in earnest.

It had started the way one of their fights normally would have: Enjolras coming home from work and ranting about all the problems he was up against, and Grantaire had tried to listen, really he had, but it was always the same old thing, so he returned to his sketch and started to tune Enjolras out.

Before, this would have made Enjolras angry, and his rant would turn personal, to how Grantaire never listened to him or cared about the important things. But since they had moved in together, only a few weeks before, Enjolras had seen another side of Grantaire, something he had suspected but never quite known: Grantaire did listen, and did care. The problem for Grantaire was that the only thing he cared about was Enjolras, and knowing that there was nothing he could do to help Enjolras frustrated him. His caring was individual and narrow, but no less passionate than Enjolras’s.

So Enjolras had learned —  _was learning_ , it was a process, after all — that when Grantaire got like that, when he curled in on himself because Enjolras was too focused and there was nothing Grantaire could do, it was a sign that maybe Enjolras should put his rant to the side for the moment.

Just for the moment.

Enjolras couldn’t stop caring about the problems of the world any more than Grantaire could miraculously start, but for a simple, single moment, Enjolras could push them to the back of his mind and focus on bringing that smile back to the face of the man that he loved (the man he had fallen in love with so long ago but had denied and pushed away and pretended like he didn’t until he finally couldn’t anymore).

Hence the tickling. Enjolras had interrupted himself mid-sentence, noticing the look on Grantaire’s face, and crept up to the couch, where the tickling had subsequently commenced.

And when they were done, later in the evening, over dinner perhaps, or cuddled in bed together, Grantaire would let Enjolras rest his head against his chest and let him talk over all of the problems in the world, ranging from the mundane in his job to the far broader societal problems. And Grantaire would card his fingers through Enjolras’s hair and offer suggestions when he could (and, yes, the occasional sarcastic comment when it was merited), but most of all, he would just listen.

It was a compromise that they had come to without ever even speaking of the topic, and it was something that just  _worked_  between them. And as Enjolras smirked and kissed Grantaire’s shaking stomach as he continued tickling him, he couldn’t help but be very glad that it was working.

* * *

 

Nothing between them was working.

It was as if Enjolras and Grantaire were living on completely separate planets lately, and the fight they had that night had been the product of weeks of stress and build-up that finally exploded. And how it had exploded — with screaming and slamming doors and Grantaire finally announcing that he was leaving.

As soon as he said those words, bitter and angry and so  _final_ , all the tension seemed to drop, leaving Enjolras staring at him with wide eyes.

He watched as Grantaire began throwing his clothes together, watched as Grantaire stormed around their apartment, watched as Grantaire packed up his half of their life together. All it seemed that he could do was watch.

What words could he say, after all the ones they had hurled at each other? What words could he offer to somehow soothe the damage his previous ones had done? Could words even begin to repair what had broken between them?

So he stayed silent, and he watched.

And when Grantaire had packed as much as he needed to for this gesture more symbolic than anything, he turned to Enjolras, his expression stony, his gaze staring a clear challenge, waiting for Enjolras to say something, anything. But Enjolras had nothing to say, so he stayed silent.

Grantaire turned to leave, and his hand was actually on the doorknob before Enjolras caught up to him, his hand tentative on Grantaire’s arm and his voice quiet and pleading. “Don’t.”

There was a brief moment where it looked like Grantaire might still turn the doorknob, might still walk out of the building, walk away from the life they had built together, but Enjolras repeated, even more desperately, his voice cracking and breaking, “Don’t.”

And then Enjolras kissed him, his hand still light against Grantaire’s arm, not wanting to grab or force or take what he would never presume to. But then Grantaire dropped the bag he was carrying to push Enjolras against the wall of the foyer, kissing him hungrily.

The kisses they exchanged were just as angry and tense as the words they had flung at each other earlier, but there was still relief in the way that Enjolras balled his hands into the back of Grantaire’s shirt, the way that Grantaire tangled his fingers in Enjolras’s hair. There was relief here, there was comfort, and for the moment at least, neither of them were going anywhere.

* * *

 

It wasn’t planned — well, it was planned insomuch as Grantaire had the ring with him, but Grantaire had been carrying the ring with him ever since he had finally broke down and purchased it — but it wasn’t planned because this was never where Grantaire would have thought to have proposed.

They weren’t anywhere special, the timing wasn’t exactly great, but Enjolras was wearing that red shirt that just  _did_  things to Grantaire, and they had just had  _really_  good sex, and even though they were on their way to the Musain, where they would probably be late and Enjolras would probably be pouting about that for the rest of the evening, Grantaire had realized that if this was somehow as good as it got, it was the best thing that he had ever had or ever would.

And he never wanted it to end.

So he had stopped Enjolras, had actually gotten down on one knee, his fingers trembling as he pulled the ring from his pocket, and he had somehow managed to get through a really pitiful, stuttering speech that was half proposal, half ode to Enjolras’s ass, but it didn’t matter.

From the moment Grantaire had gotten down on one knee, Enjolras had stared at him with the look Grantaire had only ever seen on his face when he saw him look at the painting La Liberté guidant le peuple when they were on vacation in France, and before Grantaire even got the words out, Enjolras nodded, a smile splitting his face. With fingers that trembled almost as much as Grantaire’s, he reached for the ring, clearly intending to put it on himself.

“Don’t,” Grantaire told him breathlessly, instead reaching for Enjolras’s hand with his free one, and he slowly slid the ring onto Enjolras’s finger, grinning almost giddily at the way the platinum ring looked on Enjolras’s thin finger.

Enjolras bent to pull Grantaire to his feet, and they kissed, the kiss equal parts sweet and gentle and somehow also fierce and passionate. Grantaire couldn’t stop grinning, and neither could Enjolras, and both of them were crying a little.

And as they finally headed towards the Musain (they were  _definitely_  going to be late), Grantaire wove his fingers with Enjolras’s so that he could feel the cool metal of the ring against his own fingers, so that he could feel the promise and the life that they were going to spend together forever.

(And eight months later, at their wedding, Enjolras echoed what Grantaire said back to him, when his fingers were shaking so badly that Grantaire reached for the wedding band that Enjolras was trying to slide onto his finger. “Don’t,” Enjolras told him, his voice low but firm, and his fingers stopped trembling enough for him to slide the ring home, to mark Grantaire as his forever).

* * *

 

Grantaire’s hand was slowly clenching into a fist, and the muscles in his arm tensed as he glared at Enjolras’s father, whose voice was loud and obnoxious as he spoke to one of his business associates. They hadn’t known that Enjolras’s father — with whom Enjolras did not keep in touch, for obvious reasons — was going to be at this benefit, since it wasn’t like Enjolras’s father or his company cared about the houseless individuals in the city.

But here he was, and from the moment he had laid eyes on his least favorite (and only) child, Enjolras’s father had been pounding scotch in a way that, under other circumstances, would have garnered Grantaire’s respect. Now, all it garnered was his disgust.

He had been complaining to his colleague about Enjolras, which was particularly galling since Enjolras was sitting  _right here_  and they could hear every word that he said. And considering that the man hadn’t even bothered to show up for their wedding, it was even worse to hear him speak of Enjolras as if he knew a damn thing about him (as if he ever had).

Enjolras laid his fingers lightly against Grantaire’s fist. “Don’t,” he said lightly, his tone a low warning, and slowly, with more effort than he could possibly say, Grantaire's fist unclenched.

But then Enjolras’s father made a snide comment about Grantaire.

Before Grantaire could react, before his fist could again clench, before he could even lean forward, Enjolras was out of his seat, his face whiter than usual. Without saying a word, he punched his own father with the force of thirty years’ worth of pent-up pain and anger.

Granted, it was a glorious sight watching Enjolras’s father spin to the ground, clutching his assuredly-broken nose, and yeah, there was a hell of a lot of validation happening here, but still, Grantaire knew that he had to get Enjolras away from the situation before he did something he regretted. So he stood and grabbed Enjolras’s arm, but Enjolras just shook him off and turned to glare at him. “Don’t,” he repeated, still a warning, but this one fierce and sharp.

So Grantaire stepped back. And five minutes later as he trailed behind Enjolras being escorted out of the venue by security, he couldn’t help the utterly proud grin that spread across his face.

* * *

 

Enjolras was making the tell-tale signs of waking up.

Unlike Grantaire, who could fall asleep at the drop of a pin and wake up in the same, Enjolras had a routine when it came to going to bed, and equally as much a routine when it came to getting up. First, his foot would twitch. Then, he would nuzzle his face against whatever he was sleeping on (his pillow, or more likely, Grantaire’s chest). He would let out a soft noise that was part groan and part snuffle, and his arms would tighten around whatever he was holding (again, very rarely, his pillow, and far more likely, Grantaire) as if in a desperate attempt to stay asleep. Finally, his eyelids would flutter open and he would lie there for a few minutes, blinking blearily, before standing and shuffling to the kitchen for coffee or the bathroom to pee, depending on which urge was more urgent.

Right now, he was in the nuzzling stage, and Grantaire groaned, his own arms tightening around Enjolras. He didn’t want to open his own eyes, didn’t want to see how late in the morning it probably was, because they had a late night the night before, and damnit, they deserved to sleep in.

And Grantaire wasn’t going to let Enjolras ruin that for him, especially since they were now pushing twenty years out of college and thus were twenty years past the point where their bodies could somehow run on three hours of sleep.

So when he felt Enjolras start trying to sit up, Grantaire clutched onto him all the tighter and mumbled, more against Enjolras’s skin than anything, “Don’t.”

For once, Enjolras didn’t complain or try to argue, just settling back against Grantaire, his breathing evening out as they both fell back asleep.

* * *

 

Grantaire’s breathing was slow and not quite even enough to be considered steady, and Enjolras’s hand in his was shaking. He had been sitting in this hard chair for almost twelve hours straight, never once letting go of Grantaire’s hand, never once looking away from the man he loved.

The man who was now lying in a hospital bed, his breathing slow and uneven, the beep of the heartbeat monitor the only assurance that Grantaire really was still alive.

Time had not necessarily been kind to either of them, but to Grantaire, it had been worse, and his cancer diagnosis had been the final piece of that. He had been given mere months, and those months had now passed, which found them here.

He had to have been in pain, though Enjolras knew there was something in his IV drip to ease that, but even before, even when brought into this room, Grantaire hadn’t cared about himself, only Enjolras, reaching out to him, reaching out to wipe the tears from Enjolras’s cheeks and tell him in a rough, painful whisper, “Don’t.”

It may very well end up being the last thing that Grantaire said to him.

Of course, the words they had said in their now forty-plus years together were more important than anything Grantaire uttered now. They had said their goodbyes, they had said their final words of love and comfort, had been arranging for this ever since Grantaire’s diagnosis. And they had lived a full and happy life together.

But that didn’t somehow make this easier.

Enjolras’s shoulders shook with silent sobs as he held onto Grantaire’s hand even tighter, holding on to the man that he loved as if he could somehow keep him here that much longer if he refused to let him go. He leaned his head against Grantaire’s shoulder, ignoring the awkward angle from the chair to the hospital bed, listening to Grantaire’s shuddering breaths underneath his ear, and closed his eyes.

“Don’t,” he whispered, as fervent as a prayer. Whether he was speaking to Grantaire, begging him to stay, to God or to whichever cosmic power existed, it didn’t matter. The word would have had the same effect in any case.

“Don’t.”


End file.
